


She's got a type

by TheBlackestFrost



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Bar fights, F/M, Jealousy, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-01 01:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21319249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackestFrost/pseuds/TheBlackestFrost
Summary: It may be his hangover or just the fact that he’s an asshole, but he starts to chuckle, and she sees red.“Ain’t like he was your type, love.”She’s pissed now, pissed that the second she looks non-disgusting enough to catch attention she's flirt blocked by a leprechaun in mardi gras beads.“Don’t act as if you know a fuckin’ thing about me.”In a dive bar in New Orleans, Mad Sweeney shares some insights, and Laura wants no regrets.
Relationships: Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	She's got a type

They enter another dive bar, New Orleans’ speciality it seems, and she is too happy to worry about lighting and heat and anything else. The rejuvenation is temporary, but like the pretty floral dress she’s wearing and the vodka soon to be burning her throat, it’s enough for now.

Sweeney, still wearing mardi gras beads and a shiner, sets cash on the bar and orders for them both.

A blonde man across the bar eyes her shiny brown curls, her pink lips, and flashes her a grin that she’s all too happy to return.

She feels Sweeney stiffen next to her but say nothing, and finds her mood turning to mischief. She has spent days in decay, rotting and putrefying, and she’s not sure if it’s the newly active nerve endings or just the lack of feeling herself atrophying, but she’s happy and horny and wants to be looked at like that.

Like she’s Laura. Like she’s human. Like she’s alive.

Turning slowly to lean against the bar, she eyes the room, noticing a slim man with sharp eyes and black hair by the exit sign. He raises his glass to her and she quirks an eyebrow, biting her lower lip and enjoying the way his eyes narrow with interest.

A massive arm reaches across her to pick up the drinks, briefly blocking her view, and it’s enough of a signal that she can feel the claim settling over her shoulders like it might as well be the veil.

The man by the exit sign pales, and turns away. When she looks over the bar the blonde man is refusing to meet her eyes, and she feels ready to explode.

She turns to Mad Sweeney with a frustrated sigh, noting the tension in his neck but ignoring it, in no mood for his shit.

“Can you not play pissing contest just for once?”

He doesn’t smile or answer back, holding her gaze and slugging back his first drink (at full height she’s stuck craning her neck, and it makes her want to punch him). He picks up his second drink and she grabs hers, following him to the booth.

She’s not done here. “Seriously, I don’t need a guard dog, do you know how long since someone looked at me like-“

It may be his hangover or just the fact that he’s an asshole, but he starts to chuckle, and she sees red.

“Ain’t like he was your type, love.”

She’s pissed now, pissed that the second she looks non-disgusting enough to catch attention she's flirt blocked by a leprechaun in mardi gras beads.

“Don’t act as if you know a fuckin’ thing about me.”

It’s the wrong (right?) thing to say and the look he shoots her is boredom and venom as he lights a cigarette.

“Really now? I know your type just fine, Dead Wife. You like ‘em big.”

“Hardly an impressive deduction seeing as you've met my husband.”

"Former husband, death til us part and all that." He shakes his head. “Bet you've always looked for the big ones, have for a while now, don’t ya?”

She’s pissed but doesn’t lie. “So?”

She can’t keep the challenge from her voice but goddamnit she’s angry and in no mood for him to keep her from the mildest form of flirting.

At her tone his ears prick and his eyebrow shoots up and suddenly he’s focusing on her intensely the same way he did the first night she met him, interrogating her on kissing Shadow and pulling information from her with quick, harsh words and smug awareness.

“Big enough to hurt a bit, big enough to stretch out those skinny legs when they’re plowin’ into you. Big enough to leave bruises and you poke ‘em days later to remind yourself.”

She goes to retort but he’s on a roll.

“Big enough to be a threat to you, to other people.”

There's something dangerous and harsh in his voice, as if he's spitting this out involuntarily, and she wonders how long he's wondered. The retort dies and he cocks his head, stubbing out his smoke.

“That’s the key, aint it?”

She’s stopped smoking now, the cigarette slowly burning down between her fingers as lights himself another. 

“Skinny little thing like you wants the thrill of it. You like it when you’re in the room with someone who could take what they wanted from you, you like lightning rods; big guys that look dangerous enough that other guys want to test their mettle. Guys who make other guys either move away or try to rise to the challenge.”

He leans over the table and she can’t look away from his eyes, dark and intense and burning with…something. Hate? Lust? Something else? She can’t tell. But she's suddenly mindful of every time they've argued and he's loomed over her like a fucking spectre, the feeling of being crowded and so, so much smaller warring with her enjoyment of the coin-issued strength. 

“Tell me, how often did you turn those big browns to other men in bars, hopin’ for a fight ta break out? How many times did you encourage it, just to see how it played out?”

Sometimes, not often enough for her husband to catch on, but enough that it’s the truth and she hates him for it.

Not that she feels any shame about it, hell it was better than bugspray, but when he shares these insights she hates how many parts of her he sees and wants to hide away.

And he knows it.

She refuses to be cowed. “What, you’ve never drunkenly gone to town on a guy over a woman?”

His laugh is harsh, painful even, and as he sits back against the booth she knows he’s thinking about the night they met.

_“I was told to be at a bar, pick a fight with your man. Said he wanted to see what your man was made of.”_

She is very still. “Not exactly like the fight was over me.”

He won’t look at her. “Used your obituary to start it.”

She nods, “Yep, that would’ve done it.”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Woulda been better if he’d known about the cocksuckin’.”

She refuses to flinch, pokes at the wound instead. “So, did he rise to the occasion? Did he kick your ass?”

He grins and it has an edge to it. “With joy and aplomb.”

She becomes aware that something is rising here, he’s hyper focused on her and tense, angry and frustrated, something humming and buzzing beneath the surface that had maybe always been there but their brief time apart has amplified it beyond restraint.

She knows this because she can feel it too, her body’s nerve endings standing to attention, the past few days twisting and turning and burning away something protective from before, now raw and bare, quicker to hurt and be hurt.

_Give fuckin’ the corpse a coin._

_All my luck is yours, Dead Wife._

_Don’t hover over me like a vulture._

_Hold tight, think of your man._

He waits and she asks the question they both know she’ll ask. “Who won?”

He looks her up and down, she feels the hug of her dress like hands running over her, and then holds her eyes. “Define winning.”

She goes to snap back but they’re interrupted by the blonde man from across the bar earlier. He’s Shadow’s height, well built like a former footballer with a few years away from the field, broad and solid. The type of guy she would have dated in high school or cheated on in high school or been willing to allow to fuck her, briefly and pathetically, in high school.

Behind him she sees two other men, similar height and build, and knows without knowing that they’ve played this game before.

“Excuse me, ma’am, is this guy bothering you?” He shoots her a kind smile with very white teeth, his eyes predatory.

She’s seen plenty of guys run this scene, knows he’s going to escalate things quickly and rely on numbers. Sweeney is sitting, and with that ridiculous shirt, those beads, and that shiner, he looks like a guy that NOLA has made her bitch.

She watches Mad Sweeney watching her, and that something, that tense and dark something, passes between them.

She stubs out her cigarette, lighting a new one and exhaling.

“Constantly.”

Mad Sweeney's eyes gleam with interest and anticipation. 

The blonde man is pleased with her response, his friends crossing their arms as he leans over to plant a hand on the table.

“Come on guy, think it’s time for you to leave.”

Sweeney takes a drag without looking at the blonde man, only Laura.

“Tell me, how did the game usually end?”

His tone is conversational but there's an underlying question, and she doesn’t fight the smile at the corner of her mouth, the suggestion in her eyes.

“With bruises.”

He nods thoughtfully as if she’s confirmed something, finishing his drink as he stubs out his cigarette.

“Well then, best be gettin’ on with it.”

His hand snaps out to throw the glass at the man to the right, other hand grabbing the blonde man’s arm so he slams face first into the table.

The blonde man rears up with a howl of agony, a broken nose streaming blood down his shirt, but Sweeney is already up and swinging. The guy on the left is backing up, and Sweeney strips off his shirt and beads with one movement, adjusting his suspenders and letting lose a haymaker that sends the guy on the left flying.

If she had shame she might feel embarrassed at herself, staring at bunching muscles, watching him duck and weave, taking a blow and bouncing back twice as hard. He fights like he’s born to it, like he craves it, like he’s designed for it. His size and reach mean he’s got the advantage 9. 99 times out of 10, but there’s something more than that.

He’s completely unafraid of being hit.

Others try to defend and avoid, he leans into it and dodges, or takes the hit where it’s easiest, coming back with a one two that leaves a security guard slumped against the wall. He goads, laughs, enjoys himself. The bar is a ruckus of people leaving, some people joining, and in the centre is Mad Sweeney rising to (enjoying, relishing, wanting) the challenge. 

He’s got blood streaming from a cut over his eye but ignores it, ducking a chair and laughing against the bar, helping himself to a bottle of whisky to swig from and then smash into another man.

If she had shame she might feel worried about her body reacting this way, confirming everything he’s said, but theirs is not a space for embarrassment or self-consciouness. It’s hard to feel shame when someone has seen your literal insides.

The sight of the mayhem and laughing warrior in the middle is making her squirm in her seat, nerve endings that will soon enough be deadened firing wildly. She sips at her vodka daintily, the sounds lessening as people flee, and in the ruckus he turns to see her.

Time, for just a moment, stops and they're alone. 

They both know she could end it, rejuvenated body now operating at full coin-enhanced capacity power and her ass kicking boots ready to send blood around the bar. 

But she really does love this dress, and so she holds his gaze and sips her vodka, saying nothing and everything. He can see it, she knows, knows her eyes are hooded and her mouth is slightly open and her teeth are biting her bottom lip. He looks hungry, starving, but he’s tackled by the blonde man and turns his attention to the nuisance at his hips.

The bubble bursts but she's happy to keep it close. 

More people are trying to flee now, panicked at the escalation, and she suspects it won’t be long before the police arrive. She stands, picking her way past brawls to tap him on the shoulder and step back as he turns quickly.

He registers her presence before he lands a blow on the man whose collar he's gripping, dropping him. He stares at her a moment as the thrumming sounds of violence, crashing of chairs, dull thuds and grunts of pain surround them. He’s breathing hard and she reaches out a hand, pressing it against his chest, feeling his heart racing. He grips her hand with his own, pressing it tighter against him, stepping forward to her to haul her up against him.

Her feet are dangling well off the floor and she feels weightless, like a doll. From here she can make out every dark thought in his eyes and she can feel those heavy breaths against her lips and she wants to taste him.

One man punching another jostles them, forcing him to lower her or trip. He sends an elbow to the intruder, nailing him in the face, sending his head snapping back.

Sweeney doesn’t bother looking at her, just grips her wrist and hauls her behind him, using his bulk to push through the crowds and out the back exit. The night air is warm enough, cool compared to the heat of violence in the bar. He keeps going, dragging her behind him, down alley after alley after alley, until the sounds of the fight have long left them.

She knows they’re still in the French Quarter, in an alleyway with lamp posts and stone paving and mist gathering like it knows they need privacy. She sees him scope out a doorway, noting the lack of lights and taking a risk, crunching the handle and pushing inside.

She knows what this is, knows the endgame. She feels his grip tighten and smiles. 

The place is bigger than she expected, narrow but high, with stairs leading to a first and second floor. She sees a kitchen to their right but it’s the bedroom to the left that catches his eye, and he pulls her in behind him.

The light he flicks on is dim and red and she’s fairly sure this bedroom is normally used for capital gain, the thought leaving her with a thrill.

She lets him stop, and still, and turn.

He takes a swig from a bottle she didn’t realise he’d taken (or perhaps he’s pulled it from his hoard, like so many lock jimmies and cigarettes and so so much gold). He holds it out to her and she accepts, his blood on the rim and then on her tongue, watching his chest expanding and contracting with heavy breaths as the whisky burns its way down.

As she drinks he steps forward, pushing the bedroom door closed behind her, looming over her, eyes never leaving hers.

She passes it back and then it’s gone and his hands are on her, pushing her against the door and upwards until she’s level with his face again, leaning into her heavily, pinning her in place. An oversized hand tangles in her hair forcing her to look up at him, and she can't stop the brief moan the sensation elicits. 

The sound makes him curse and he pulls her hands above her head (she lets him, they both know she lets him, they both know that she’s letting all of this happen), pressing her wrists into the wall before reaching between them. He pulls her dress aside, gripping slim thighs with big, calloused hands and running long fingers against her centre.

She moans, writhes, unused now to the nerves there being active, her body apparently still awake enough to generate moisture, and if she thinks too long about how little time she’ll have she knows she will waste said moisture crying. She’s wet from the bar, from the fight, from his eyes on her, from the days apart and the days together.

Instead of pining she moans, mewls, unable to shift much with her wrists pinned, grinding against the flat of his palm and crying out when he slips a thick finger between her folds. He’s too tall over her, too broad, the heat and size is suffocating and she feels herself clenching in all the right ways.

“Christ woman.”

He raises his hand to his lips, tongue running over the moisture at his fingertips, eyes never leaving hers. She feels the throbbing, a gnawing ache, but he’s not done with his onslaught. He releases her wrists, her arms lowering as he runs his tongue over his teeth.

He moves quickly, dropping to his knees, and on another day she would ask him whether this was part of the god deal, but today she is out of words and aches too badly to snark.

Even on his knees he reaches her stomach, and when he throws her leg over his shoulder she feels the burn of stretching muscles. He must notice that she’s barely on a tip toe, hands gripping his head for purchase, because he grips her other thigh and shifts her over his shoulder until she’s pinned by his weight, one hand gripping her thigh hard enough to bruise, the other forearm across her stomach, pinning her to the wall.

She feels him exhale against her, pulling her legs open and tasting her like she’s made of free flowing ichor. He makes a sound in his throat that will haunt her for weeks, like relief and longing.

She feels helpless but she’s resourceful, one hand against the wall and the other in his hair, pushing and grinding back as he feasts on her, the building sensation overlapping until she’s completely overwhelmed. His beard leaves her thighs raw, tongue lapping at her, running over her clit, biting and sucking and dragging hanging cries from her.

When she comes it’s like being hit by a freight train, and she feels his grip like concrete, holding her in place her body goes taut before finally slackening.

Before she can come down he’s standing, shifting her legs around his waist and unbuckling his pants to release himself and push into her and she sees stars. He’s bottomed out but waits as she struggles against the size, her body clenching painfully at the intrusion, the stretch too much and too intense and she’s only just starting to adjust (shifting minutely against him) when he starts moving again.

He’s rough to the point that at first it's difficult to differentiate pain from pleasure, but she tightens her thighs and catches up, her nails running over his back as she starts to match his place. That deep burn has started shifting faster now, the rough snap of his hips and the rattle of the door and the hiss he makes as she scours his back (marking him with bloody stripes) all narrowing her focal point to this single moment. 

She cries out, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he kisses her neck, bites at the skin there, roughly grips her breast and plucks at her sensitive nipple. He reaches a hand between them, thumbing at her clit, and the gentle movement and rough fucking are too much for her, another orgasm ripping painfully through her spent body.

He doesn't take his eyes off her face, watching her slip over the edge and into the darkness. 

He withdraws and it’s enough to make her gasp, his voice ragged.

“Knees, now.”

Her mouth damn near waters. 

She drops in front of him to take him into her mouth but has clearly misjudged his intent.

He lowers himself, grabbing her hips and shifting her until she’s on all fours on the carpet, positioning himself behind her. When he pushes into her again she cries out in relief, and pushes back against him as his fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her upright. Her back bowed like this makes it hard to move, but then his hand is slipping down between them and she's makes a desperate, pleading sound, and the the words come.

“Yes, fuck, please, god, yes, harder, fuck me…” it’s a steady stream of filth pouring out of her and he responds well, pistoning into her so hard she’s stuttering before he turns her over, pulling her hips into his lap. Her shoulders scrape against the carpet but she can’t think of anything but the feel of him, the obscene sight of his thick length disappearing into her.

She writhes and moans and then he’s stiffening against her, growling out her name as a final burst of stars appears behind her eyes.

For a moment the room is still and silent but for the panting breaths. 

He pulls her against his chest, still on his knees and buried inside her, gripping her tightly against him as his ragged breathing struggles to return to normal. She slumps, exhausted, against his neck.

Somewhere in her mind she wonders if she should feel guilty, like she owes Shadow better than this, fidelity or something, but with every passing beat she can't find a single regret anywhere inside her.

She strokes his broad back gently, feeling the sweat there, the little bloody marks she’s left on him. She thinks about hoards and snarking and coins and myths and fairies.

He feels her pull back, meets her eyes, his face tired and satisfied with a hint of anxiety (does he think she’ll hurt him? blame him? they both know he can’t take what isn’t freely given).

She reaches for him, trailing her fingers over either side of his neck, up over his jaw and back to his shoulders. 

As she comes down, all too aware that this is a stolen second, she does something that this sort of game never included when she was alive, something impulsive and depraved, something she refuses to worry about regretting.

She doesn’t want any regrets, not tonight, so she leans forward. 

Her kiss is gentle, pulling him against her, pressing herself into his chest like she can melt into him. His lips are warm, skin heated from their intimacy, and she runs her hands up his neck, behind to tangle in thick hair.

He reacts quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist, up her back, and kissing her back like she’s oxygen and whisky and like he can pull that fucking coin from her chest through her mouth and it feels like home, like she could come alive, like she wants it to go on forever. It feels nothing short of bliss.

She lets out a noise so light, so shudderingly sweet and happy that she feels his hands still.

This isn’t the deal, they need to stop.

Neither can tumble down this rabbit hole; he owes his battle, she’s searching for life.

She feels his arms loosen as if aware but unwilling, feels his mouth slow, feels him pull back like it is agony. She let's him, fingers loosening in his hair as she studies his face and sees too much there. 

Her hands shift to his jaw. 

She can’t help herself, meeting his eyes to plant a final soft kiss on his lips, his nose, and finally his forehead.

When she pulls back his eyes are closed and so it seems are his cuts and the bruising is lessened like magic and she wants to kiss him again, and again, and again, and wonders if this is what worship feels like. He opens his eyes slowly, pupils blown and heart hammering away so hard she swears she can hear it, and for a moment his eyes aren’t angry or guilty or dark with lust or something else but he's looking at her now, really looking at her. 

Like she’s Laura. Like she’s human. Like she’s alive.

For a moment she sees peace, or something more.

The sound of tourists in the distance breaks the bubble surrounding them, and she pulls back, standing on shaky legs and willing herself not to look at the blossoming bruises she knows will appear on her thighs, her hips, her ribcage.

She wonders if they’ll stay there as she begins to break down again, if she’ll be able to look at the big finger marks on her ribs and stroke them and remember.

She finds herself hoping so.

He’s adjusted himself, trousers secure, and a cigarette pulled from who knows where dangling from his lips. As the leave the house he passes her one and lights them both, before straightening up and smirking.

“Told ya I knew your type.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's porn. Maybe some plot. But mostly porn.
> 
> It's been a while since writing this stuff, open to feedback. Thank you for reading!


End file.
